Last Song Before Morning
by bironic
Summary: The candle has flickered out, but Dustfinger can keep them warm. A book/movie fusion of Inkheart based on the scene where Dustfinger and Resa are trapped in Capricorn's crypt. Content notes: contains infidelity and contemplation of mortality.


The candle melts down to a stub on the sarcophagus, then flickers out.

Something tightens in Dustfinger's chest. If Farid were here, he'd whisper about ghosts. Dustfinger knows better, but there's a thickness to the air in Capricorn's crypt, stale and dust-choked, that makes him feel like he's breathing in the dead. Filling his lungs with death, his blood, suffusing his body. Preparing him for what's to come in the morning.

Resa reaches for him in the dark. They've been sitting side by side on the tomb with their backs to the stone wall for hours, Resa spinning slow tales on scraps of paper for him to read aloud and elaborate on; but it isn't until she takes his hand that Dustfinger realizes she's cold.

She lifts their joined hands to her mouth. He squints at her, confused. He can barely make out her features in the moonlight angling down from the barred windows. He needs no light, though, to savor the soft drag of her lips.

Then she breathes warmth over their fingers and looks up at him, and he understands.

"Of course," he whispers. "Let me."

She lets go. He rubs his palms together. Cups his hands at his mouth and blows into them. Coaxes the fire to life. Not flame, though. Not even embers. Just a gentle heat, a faint glow.

When he enfolds Resa's hands in his, she gives him a sad, grateful smile.

They're going to die tomorrow. Capricorn will force Meggie to read out the Shadow, and Dustfinger and Resa will be its first victims in this strange new world. He knows it's going to happen, but he still can't believe it. Not truly. No man can truly comprehend his imminent mortality, he thinks. Once more, he wishes he could hold fast to the conviction that dying in this world will send him home rather than into oblivion.

Resa frees one hand to press a finger to his lips. "Shh," she tells him, as if she can hear his thoughts. It's one of the only things she's been able to say since Darius accidentally robbed her of her voice. Then she shivers.

With reluctance, Dustfinger retakes her hand to warm it up. But Resa has a different idea. Heedless of the soft smear of wax between them, she inches over until their hips meet. Then she curves into him, sliding her arms under his coat and around his ribs and settling her head against the front of his shoulder.

His heart trips.

Resa, curled around him. The stuff of dreams. It takes him a moment to overcome his disbelief and close his arms around her. He presses his mouth to the top of her head and breathes in. She still carries a trace scent of woodsmoke from the kitchens.

 _She's only in your arms because she's cold_ , the bitter voice in his head reminds him. Still, he'll take what he can get.

The chill in her hands and face seeps through his clothes. He moves his heated palms across her back as she shivers again. After a few long moments, he slides one hand up to rest at the back of her neck. She nestles closer, tighter.

 _Tell me a story_ , Dustfinger had pleaded when dark thoughts pressed in on him earlier in the night. He says it again silently now. _Tell me how we escape this prison and elude Capricorn's men. Tell me how we…_

How they what? Rescue Resa's husband and daughter so they can live happily ever after while Dustfinger the vagabond plays tricks for coins? Ignore her family and run off together to some cottage in the countryside? Unearth the secret that Silvertongue swears he doesn't know so Dustfinger can go home to his own family after all these years?

Ever since he got stuck in this world, he's had a hard time believing in happy endings.

Resa shifts as though she wants to pull away. Dustfinger briefly entertains the idea of never letting go, then loosens his hold.

She only leans back far enough to rest her palms on his chest and look at him. He wonders if she can feel how hard and fast his heart is suddenly beating. Is it wishful thinking that he sees his own feelings reflected in her eyes?

Resa has touched him many times before: to catch his attention, to tend to his burns, to comfort him on his most hopeless days. But Dustfinger hasn't often touched her, much as he's wanted to. Not until now. How ironic, he thinks as he lifts one tentative hand to the side of her face, that he should overcome his cowardice just when he's on the cusp of losing her—whether into the Shadow's maw or into Silvertongue's arms, fate only knows. He strokes her cheek.

No, he isn't imagining what he sees in her gaze. He's sure of it.

She tilts up and kisses him.

She may not be able to speak, but her mouth moves on his like poetry. His troubled thoughts scatter. He pulls her close even as she winds her arms around his neck.

She kisses like he always imagined she would: strong and sweet and sure of what she wants. Only better, because it's real. He falls into the rhythms of the press of her lips. Opens his mouth to her as he's already opened his faithless heart.

He loses track of time. Once, they break for air, only to resume moments later as if their kisses are all that stand between them and the morning.

At last, she pulls away. Her pinned-up hair has started to come loose, and her lips, still parted, are darker than Dustfinger has ever seen them. He's tempted to kindle a brighter flame so he can soak in the details.

He tries to read her expression as they catch their breath. Is that a flash of guilt in her eyes? Maybe so; she takes his wrist where his hand curves around the side of her neck and lowers his arm to his lap, then slides off the stone entirely.

Dustfinger tries not to feel too disappointed when she turns her back to him. After all, it's more than he expected to experience with her. There are worse memories he could take to his grave.

But once more, Resa surprises him. Casting a look over her shoulder, she lifts herself backwards onto the stone so that Dustfinger has to spread his legs to accommodate her. He takes a quick breath as she presses into him, snug between his legs with her back to his chest. She takes his arms and wraps them around her.

He sits very still as he wills his body to stay calm. Her fingers interlace with his. Her hands, he notes vaguely, are still chilled.

Is this leading somewhere, or is she merely getting more comfortable in her search for warmth? Can he nuzzle into her hair, mouth his way down over her ear, her jaw, her neck? Or would that send her to the other edge of the sarcophagus to suffer the cold in exchange for remaining true to her husband after a momentary indiscretion? Dustfinger doesn't care a whit about Silvertongue and doesn't know if he'll ever see Roxane again; it's only that he's afraid of spoiling... whatever it is that's happening between them.

He doesn't have to wonder long.

Despite Resa's voicelessness, for as long as Dustfinger has known her, she's always been clear in communicating what she thinks and wants. Now she moves his right hand to the front of her skirts.

The shock of it makes the heat flare up in his palms. He tamps it down just as quickly.

Resa keeps hold of him, guiding his hand down and up again, curling his fingers into warmth that somehow feels as intense as anything Dustfinger can generate. He closes his eyes and breathes into her hair as she shows him what she likes.

He thought he was sparing Resa discomfort by letting the fire cool as he touches her. So he's mystified at first when she pauses to shake out his hand. It isn't until she huffs an impatient breath into his palm like she did at the beginning of this encounter that he catches on. He smiles into her hair and murmurs an apology as he obliges. She returns their hands to their previous position and lets out a satisfied-sounding sigh.

Her hands warm more quickly now, and the rest of her body begins to follow. He encourages the heat to flow into her as she guides his left hand to her breast. His thumb strokes bare, soft skin while the rest of his fingers seek the shape of her through the thick embroidery of her bodice. Before long, he's not sure who's keeping who warm.

Her breaths grow shallower, and her hips keep canting up into his touch. Has it been as long for her as it's been for him? Likely longer, he decides. He's shared a few women's beds in the towns he's traveled through in this world, but there isn't a man in Capricorn's village Resa would lie with willingly.

He doesn't know if she took a lover while she was trapped in his world. In what Silvertongue calls the Inkworld. Dustfinger suspects not. Resa has remained stubbornly optimistic about being reunited with her husband and almost-grown daughter.

At that thought, Dustfinger's movements falter. If Resa has always believed she'll find her way back to Silvertongue, then doing this now with Dustfinger—now, when her husband is at last within reach—must mean she's finally given up hope. Fear grips him again, tempering his body's response to her. They're really going to die tomorrow.

No. It can't be. There was no despair in her eyes when she came to him.

He opens his eyes and refocuses on Resa's pleasure before she has cause to complain. The leashed fire in his hands casts a faint glow where he's touching her; her face is limned in red. Their ragged breaths and the rustle of her clothes fill the empty space in the crypt.

Resa hasn't given up. She can't have; it's not in her nature. She's taking what she wants, not knowing what tomorrow will bring.

And what she wants, wondrously, is Dustfinger. Or at least what Dustfinger can do to her. Do for her. She's clutching him, now, her fingers tightening and loosening on his in little spasms. Her hands aren't cold anymore; her whole body is throwing off heat. He finds her skin damp with sweat when she turns her head to press her nose and mouth into the soft hollow beneath his jaw.

She's tense and breathing hard; Dustfinger knows she's close. He concentrates his circling fingers where she responds most. Moments later, her breath catches and she arches into him. It's one of the most beautiful sounds he's heard in this world.

When she's finished, her body goes slack and she breathes out slowly across his throat. He can feel her heart pounding beneath the hand he still holds to her breast.

He sends a wry smile into the darkness as he flexes his stiff fingers. Resa shifts too, stretching up so she can kiss his cheek. This time she doesn't protest when he lets the fire die down to barely above body temperature.

He winds his arms around her once more and pulls her more firmly into the cradle of his legs where he's aching. "May I?" he whispers, with a twinge of embarrassment that prevents him from looking her in the eye.

In response, she reaches back and strokes the nape of his neck.

Relieved, he buries his face between her neck and shoulder, and Resa holds him there as he rocks into her. Between her fingers in his hair, her bare skin on his lips, and her breath at his ear, it doesn't take long. He clutches her to him and climaxes with a groan.

He comes back to himself to the puzzling scent of smoke. Blinking around in the dimness, he discovers the source: Resa's dress is singed where he's been holding her. His hands must have flared when he peaked. He swears and extinguishes the heat altogether, patting the damaged fabric.

"Are you all right?" he asks her.

Resa twists in his lap to face him. More hair has fallen free of her pins. She places her hands at the sides of his face, tucking his own mussed hair out of the way, and gives him a look of fond exasperation. Then she kisses him.

After, they settle together as comfortably as they can on the stone. Moving alerts Dustfinger to the fact that coming in his clothes was probably inadvisable.

Well, he thinks with uncharacteristic fortitude: Either he'll be dead in a few hours and he won't have to worry about it, or he'll live, and the joy of not being dead will overshadow the small discomfort.

After long minutes, Resa's breath evens out; she's fallen asleep. Dustfinger keeps stroking her hair anyway. He watches the moon sink toward morning and waits to find out how his story ends.


End file.
